


Zombie

by osointricate



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Thoughts of Suicide, Unbeta'd, rated mature for those reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osointricate/pseuds/osointricate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian's bipolar and it's kicking his butt.  (Ian's point of view.  Please read the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this is sad. And possibly triggering. Please take care of yourself first.
> 
> There aren't many fics about Ian's bipolar disorder from Ian's point of view, and since I am bipolar, I want to contribute. This is a focus on depression episode than a manic episode (so far, no plans to go into mania atm) but the show did a pretty good job of showing what mania looks like. It's hard to show what depression looks like, but this is what depression feels like. For me, at least. Lots of personal experiences. It's super close to home, and I'm super self-conscious about it, but I've gotten quite a few requests to write more from Ian's point of view so here we go. There is more, but this is what I have for now. This stuff is kind of triggering for me to write, so it takes a while. Sorry it's not fluff. Let me know if something needs fixing or if it needs another tag.

Lip was here. He was eye level, leaning down next to the bed, and looking all concerned. Ian bit a groan and rolled over. Then he saw Mickey watching from the doorway and his face broke into tears before he turned back over flat and covered his face with the blanket.

He heard Mickey sniff and his grip on the blanket tightened.

“Ian, man,” Lip started, voice soft and low. Ian hated it. “Will you at least look at me?”

Ian wasn’t going to do anything anyone asked if they asked it in that horrible tone of voice. The gentle one everyone had adopted like he was four years old and made of glass.

“Go away.”

He felt Lip lean back from the mattress. The air under the blanket was getting hot, but he wasn’t about to move it.

“Do you want to come hang out with me and Liam today?” Lip asked in the same docile voice. “I don’t have any classes for the next few days. It’d be nice to get some brother time in. We haven’t really had any since you’ve come back.”

Ian sobbed before he could stop it. It was all his fault. He went away. He didn’t see Lip off to college. He left them. He left them all. His shoulders shook, but he didn’t loosen his grip on the edge of the blanket, holding it in a tight grip to his forehead. Lip’s hand ran over the top of his head and another sob escaped him. Lip deserved a better brother.

“Go hang out with Carl,” he said, the blanket getting caught on his bottom lip. He licked it away and willed himself to stop crying.

“Carl would like to see you too,” Lip responded. “He misses his big brother.”

Ian couldn’t say anything. Carl had a big brother in Lip. Lip had a little brother in Carl. They’d both be fine without him but Lip wouldn’t understand. He only rolled away from Lip’s hand and curled in on himself under the covers.

Then it was Mickey’s hand on his head. He knew the difference. Lip petted him; Mickey ran his fingers through his hair with what felt like reverence, but Ian couldn’t be sure.

Mickey had lowered himself on the side of the bed opposite of Lip, but Ian still refused to lower the blanket.

“Do you want something to eat?” Mickey asked. Ian sniffed. They were always trying to get him to eat. What was the point of eating? “I will make you anything you want.”

He pushed his head down into the pillow, groaning.

“How about just some eggs? Even those gross over easy ones you like so much?”

Ian couldn’t answer. He felt Mickey lean forward and run the hand that was in his hair down to his neck over the blanket. Ian sobbed again.

“Will you please eat today?” Mickey asked him, his voice sounding scared. His voice wasn’t timid like everyone else. It was just scared, so scared. Mickey was always scared. Ian wanted to stop it. It sounded that way because of him.

If he wasn’t here Mickey would stop being scared.

“You don’t have to do anything else today, but please eat something.”

He didn’t feel much like eating. Mickey’s hand on his neck was so heavy, and his thumb rubbing back and forth was painful. He wanted to push it off of him, but it was too much work. He sighed instead.

“When was the last time he ate?” Lip asked.

“Two days ago,” Mickey answered.

That’s not true, Ian thought.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Lip cursed. “Fiona said you were taking care of him!”

“What am I supposed to do if he won’t eat?”

Now they were fighting. Because of him. His face was completely in the pillow now and he let out another sob.

“Make him!”

“Make him, how, exactly? Stuff the shit down his throat? I barely got water in him yesterday.”

That’s not true either, Ian thought. That was only a few hours ago, wasn’t it? He curled up against himself tighter, his foot pushed on the mattress.

“I don’t know but a hospital coul-“

“He’s not going to a hospital.” Mickey’s grip on the back of his neck tightened. Ian shook.

“If he doesn’t eat-“

“He’s not going to a hospital.”

The grip on the blanket pulled against Ian’s forehead. They were fighting and Ian needed them to not fight. He had worked for so long for everyone to get along and here he was just screwing it all up. He always screwed it up. He’d fuck his boss’ husband. He’d start fucking the neighborhood’s biggest homophobe’s son. He’d pray and hope and beg and put all that he was on the line for him to not marry a woman. He’d leave. He’d try to steal a helicopter. He left everyone he loved and broke them all and he came back with the promise of super glue just to break them again.

He didn’t want to be himself anymore.

“I know you think you’re helping but you-“

“He’s not going to a hospital!” Mickey yelled.

“Shut up!” Ian yelled, trying to shove Mickey’s hand off of him again. “Go away.”

They were both quiet and Ian felt like he could breathe again. He didn’t realize how much their fighting was keeping him from breathing.

“Babe,” Mickey said. Ian’s face broke again and his whole body shook. Mickey never called him ‘babe.’ It was so sweet and so nice, like hot chocolate with marshmallows, like finally putting on gloves after being in the snow, like stuffing your cold toes under your boyfriend’s leg sitting on the couch and laughing when they cursed you and Ian didn’t deserve it at all. “You’ve got to eat.”

This again.

He pulled the covers down quickly, the only way they were going to come down at all, and cursed at the cool air biting at the wet around his eyes.

“If I eat a few eggs will you leave me alone?” He flopped his head towards Mickey, not daring to look at Lip. Mickey’s eyes were wide and he bit his lip, but they were focused squarely on Ian’s face. Probably wondering why he hitched his wagon to such a broken man.

“For today,” he croaked out. His eyes didn’t leave Ian’s as he smirked softly. “I make no promises about your fucking family though.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head a little as if to say ‘they are your goddamn family, Gallagher. I can’t control them.’

“Mickey! Shut the fucking front door!” Mandy screamed from somewhere deep in the house, followed by a deep slam of what had to be the front door. The baby let out a small wail at the sound. “Jesus!”

Mickey’s eyes didn’t leave Ian’s face. “Or mine.”

Slowly, Mickey reached a hand towards him, running his fingers along the side of Ian’s arm. Ian adjusted his gaze to watch Mickey’s knuckles drag over his elbow. It was such a gentle touch. One Ian had dreamed of for years. It did nothing for him.

He pulled the blanket back over his head, knocking Mickey’s hand away. He didn’t deserve it. Mickey was too wonderful, he was too broken. Too wonderful and too scared.

“Fine,” he said, muffled in the blanket, feeling tired. He let out a heavy sigh and felt both Lip and Mickey lean away from the bed, away from him. “I’ll eat an egg.”

~~~

He needed to go to the bathroom. It was a need digging at him for the last few hours or so. It was closely approaching an accident level problem.

The bathroom was probably twelve steps away, right down the hall.

He couldn’t get himself to move. Lying in Mickey’s bed, blanket up to his shoulders, staring at the closed door, he wondered how much longer he could try to ignore it.

His bladder screamed at him at the thought.

He needed to pee. It was simple. He had been potty trained since he was three years old. He could do this.

He didn’t move.

He still had to go.

This was ridiculous.

Mentally, he went through what it would take to get to the bathroom. Push the blanket down, push himself up, stand up, a step or two to the door, reaching for the knob, turning it, opening the door (that seemed too much, this is ridiculous, it was opening a door, holy shit he was worthless,) the ten or so steps to the bathroom. At this point he debated if he was going to shut the bathroom door or not. That would require turning around and pushing it closed. Then he’d just have to open the door again anyway an-

Oh god, the return trip. He was lying down, but it felt like more weight just fell on top of him. He let out a sob and lost his breath for a moment. His bladder stung but he refused to pay attention to it, too busy with the thought of the return trip. He had spent the last few hours planning the trip, over and over again, with as much detail as he could imagine, and he had forgotten the return trip.

He didn’t know how long it took for him to stop crying.

He was in the bathroom. He left the door open; it would be one less thing to worry about later. He’d have to untie his pants enough to lower them to actually pee. Then the sweet release. He’d just have to stand there and aim. That was easy. He’d been doing that for the better part of two decades.

It seemed so difficult, thinking about it. He wondered, briefly, what he would do if he lost his balance. The thought was enough to send him into a fit of panic. He wanted to roll over and forget the whole thing, but he was starting to cramp. He’d have to hurry.

He should flush. But he decided if he would or not when he got there.

Then the return trip. Raising his pants, walking back the twelve or so steps back to the bed. The sweet bed. Ian melted into the mattress for a moment, scared to move.

This was absolutely ridiculous.

It was going to the bathroom, not running for president.

He was a seventeen year old this was ridiculous.

He was a seventeen year old, he needed to go to the bathroom, the bathroom was right down the hall, and this was completely, stupidly, horribly, grossly ridiculous.

Even Liam can do this. Liam was three. Liam was three years old and he could go through the process of going to the bathroom by himself.

The baby cried somewhere in the house and Ian had a thought. He needed a diaper. He was seventeen years old and he was dreaming of a diaper. A diaper would be easier. The cold, wet that would come with having a diaper would be easier to deal with than this absolute ridiculousness of not being able to go to the bathroom.

Maybe if he yelled for Mickey to come open the door, it wouldn’t be so bad. He did say he’d be around all day if Ian needed him for anything.

But then the total ridiculousness of the situation would have to be explained and Ian didn’t know if he could do that. That was entirely too embarrassing.

One thing at a time, Ian.

He pushed the blanket down. He pushed himself up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. And he paused. He had just completed an act of God and here he was, staring down the door, bladder screaming at him, bargaining with himself to keep going. Keep going, Ian. Just get it done and you can lie back down. Come on, Ian.

He pushed himself up and stumbled forward a few steps. It had been awhile since he had stood up. His feet were kind of swollen. He hadn’t factored that in to his imagination.

He deserved a rest. Leaning forward and resting his head on the doorframe he took one. He was so tired already. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor for a while seemed like a beautiful option.

This was ridiculous.

Everyone could do this. This was a basic human need and he was incapable of completing it. He was worthless and useless and trash and they should just put him out on the street so he could wet himself and no one would care and the garbage would come and take him away out of everyone’s hair. He wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

It took a ridiculous amount of time to realize he was crying. He wiped at his face and rested his hand on the door knob. Pushing away from the wall, he swung the door open as quickly as he could, rolled around the door frame, and took his first step.

‘Left, left, left, right, left, soldier,’ he told himself. He laughed at how ridiculous this whole thing was. Marching orders to get to the bathroom, how pathetic.

The bathroom door was open. The room was empty. Small victories he hadn’t even planned on fighting were already won for him. Relief flooded through him and his bladder kicked at his skin and he kept moving.

Then he was standing at the toilet, so close to his goal, he had lowered his pants, and

The lid was down.

Full shut down mode activated. Ian slowly sat himself down in front of the closed toilet and quietly cried. He had gotten so far and all he had to do was lift the toilet lid and he’d be set. But it was closed and he was on the floor now and this was where he was going to live the rest of his life because getting back up was not an option and everything about this whole endeavor was absolutely ridiculously pitiful.

“Ian?” Mickey’s voice was behind him, sounding concerned. Ian let out a laugh at how horrible everything was. This was so embarrassing. Why couldn’t he just go to the bathroom like a normal person?

“Ian you okay?” Mickey was closer; probably standing in the bathroom already, like walking here from the living room wasn’t a triathlon.

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay,” Mickey said. “Do you want me to shut the door?”

“Oh hell no,” he said quickly. That would be the worst thing that would happen to him all day. He looked at the closed toilet seat. Second worst thing, then.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m pathetic,” Ian said, laughing again. Every gaggle a punch to his bladder. Then laughter turned to tears and he was sobbing. “Just get rid of me I can’t do anything.”

Mickey’s hand was warm on his shoulder and he cried harder. Mickey knelt down and Ian collapsed onto him. Mickey’s arms moved to hold him. “I’m not getting rid of you. This is just… one more thing.”

Ian didn’t know how long they sat like that, on the floor of the bathroom, Mickey holding him while Ian cried. This was completely ridiculous. People did not go through this.

People did not cry in other people’s arms over the fact they couldn’t get themselves to the bathroom.

“You guys okay?” Mandy asked. Ian laughed again, nose deep in Mickey’s shirt. One more person to witness the complete failure of life that was Ian Gallagher. He felt Mickey nod. “Alright. You’re out of bed, Ian! That’s good.”

“I can’t go to the bathroom,” he mumbled.

“Why not?” Mandy asked.

“The lid is closed.”

It was so embarrassing.

Mickey pushed him away, holding onto Ian’s arm, reached to the toilet and raised the lid, like it was the easiest thing in the world. It was the easiest thing in the world. Ian just couldn’t do it because Ian was a failure. He started crying again. The one thing he had tried to do on his own in days and all that work, all that prep, all that energy wasted, and he failed. He was a failure. Might as well give up on everything.

“Come on,” Mickey said, standing up, leaving Ian on the floor, arms reaching for him. Then he reached down, put his arms under Ian’s, and lifted him up. Ian was dead weight and he knew it. Mickey manhandled him around so he was standing behind him, holding most of his weight. “I can’t do this part for you.”

Ian let his head fall back on Mickey’s shoulder.

This was all so ridiculous.

~~~

The baby was sweet. He was curled up in his onesie that covered his hands – one Ian always thought looked so cute on Liam – and he was sleeping peacefully. He was sweet and adorable and precious and Mickey didn’t want anything to do with him.

Ian knew why. He was present for the reason why.

Mickey should hate Ian for the same reason. For a thousand other reasons Ian was too tired to list. That was what he didn’t understand. How Mickey could treat Ian like he was priceless and turn around and completely ignore this precious baby.

The baby moved and Ian watched as Yevgeny kicked and punched and let out a small cry and then fell back to sleep. So little, only months old, already facing the world with a fist.

Svetlana was there, watching him watch Yevgeny. She didn’t move though, only watched him. Ian didn’t care. She was protective of her child. He was a walking disease. He understood her wary.

“You want to hold baby?” She asked. “Might make you feel better.”

“No.” Ian said, confused. He looked up at her for the first time. Tight purple dress and bright red hair. Ian, if he were normal and who he used to be, would have laughed. Instead he stared. “You don’t like me.”

“Of course I don’t. You’re piece of shit.”

Ian nodded. She seemed to be the only smart one around.

“Doesn’t mean your sad is good,” Svetlana told him. “Wrong kind of sad.”

Ian’s eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t say anything. She sounded like the rest of them. They were infecting her with lies.

“Husband will be back soon.”

Mickey. Her husband, not his. Hers; and she was lying to Ian for them all.

Ian shrugged, the baby kicked again, and it was the most important thing in the world. Little life that didn’t care that the world was going to try to snuff it out as much as possible. Tiny, precious life that didn’t care that his father didn’t care or that his mother was terrible. Little life that didn’t care that a sad, broken man was staring at him like he was a work of art. Life that didn’t care.

That seemed so nice.

“Sure you don’t want to hold baby?”

Ian nodded. The baby was too strong and too important for something like Ian to hold.

~~~

Mandy landed on the bed with a huff.

“You rank.”

“I’m having problems… functioning,” he told her.

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to scare off Kenyatta for me for a few hours?”

“Why don’t you leave him?”

“Why don’t you get out of bed?”

He opened his eyes to look at her. She was looking up at the ceiling, the black sleeves of her shirt pulled up around her fiddling fingers, her face devoid of all make up. Ian was fond of her dark eyes and dark lips, but she looked so much younger when she didn’t wear makeup.

‘Hence why I wear makeup, fuck twat,’ she told him once.

She wasn’t even eighteen.

Neither was he.

They were quite the pair.

“I don’t want to live anymore,” he answered her.

She turned her head to look at him, looked him in the eye for a minute. She looked so young and so tired so done and he was sure he was a mirror. Then she turned over on her side to face him.

“We don’t talk about our moms much,” she said, out of the blue. It shook him for a moment. “But your family has been talking about yours a lot lately.”

He looked away.

“I’m turning into my mom,” she said, un-lined eyes threatening to water up with rare tears. All the things she didn’t say hung in the air. How she was living in the same house, drowning in the same fear, sleeping next to the same kind of man her mother died from. “Maybe you’re turning into yours.”

She was scared of living, he didn’t want to anymore, and they weren’t even eighteen.

Yes, they were quite the pair.

~~~

Someone was yelling. It was his name.

Someone else was yelling too.

Lots of yelling.

Some of it Russian.

Some of it Fiona.

They were yelling because of him.

He rolled back over and ignored it.

~~~

He made it to the kitchen table today. Little victories, Mandy had said. She was making chicken, like honest to god cooking with an oven chicken. It smelled good and Ian, for the first time in a week, was hungry and sought out food himself. He hadn’t showered in days, he was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing for a week, but he made it out to the dining table all by himself. Mandy decided she was going to cook a real meal in order to celebrate that little victory.

Mickey seemed to be high.

He was smiling and laughing and clearing off the table with a huge smile, setting it with paper plates and silverware. He was halfway chatting with Mandy, who was the same old  
motor mouth Ian always knew her to be. Together the two of them moved around the house in a comfortable flow that Ian remembered with his own family. They’d joke and jab each other. She’d grab plates; he’d set the table. He’d empty cans of vegetables into bowls; she’d microwave them. He’d sneak a bite; she’d smack him and flip him off. A practiced rhythm.

Had the two of them always been like that?

Ian had to conserve his energy, so he didn’t ask.

Svetlana came busting into the house just as Mickey finished setting the table, pulling off a hat and her coat as she went, draping them over the back of the couch.  

“Food for me?”

“Yeah yeah,” Mandy said, waving a fork at her.

She paused and looked at Ian. “You up.”

Ian nodded.

She turned to Mickey, “You watch baby tonight. I go out.”

“I thought you wanted food?” Mandy asked.

“I eat. Then go out.” Then she muttered something Russian under her breath.

“Why are you going out on a Thursday? Thursdays are your fucking night to watch the kid.”

She spoke in quick Russian with a sour face.

“No one knows what you’re fucki- You know what?” Mickey said, standing up straight. “Not even you can ruin my fuckin’ day.”

Ian knew why. He hoped the guilt didn’t show on his face.

~~~

Someone was in the kitchen. He was at the table. The baby was crying. Someone else was yelling. There was commotion, and suddenly everyone was yelling and moving and Ian was stuck still. He turned his head and some of Mickey’s brothers were there. Mandy was between one of them and Mickey, pushing at him. Jamie, Ian thought, the oldest one.

And Iggy.

Mickey and Mandy were standing in front of him. They were protecting him, Ian thought. Jamie and Iggy were threats, his mind screamed. He took a deep breath. It was hard to give a shit.

They were saying things that Ian wasn’t quite processing. Vague meaning was passing through. He swore he heard the name ‘Terry,’ and knew he needed to be concerned with the situation, but he couldn’t gather up enough interest to care.

Then Iggy was saying something to him. Ian wanted to respond, but he just didn’t really feel like it.

“What’s wrong with him?” He heard, clear as a bell.

He looked down at the table. There was a bowl of cereal sitting there. He should eat.

Instead, he looked down at his hands.

Everything was wrong with him.

“He’s sick,” Mandy said.

Another lie. He wasn’t sick, he was useless. A burden. A failure.

One of the brothers pushed at Mandy, sending her back a few steps. Kenyatta, who was ignoring everything from the couch, finally stood up. “What’s going on here?”

Jamie and Iggy took a step back.

“You messing with Mandy?”

“No.”

“Get the fuck out before I bust your ass.”

Jamie held his hands up, “whatever, man.”

“Yeah,” Iggy said. “We’re cool.” Then. “This isn’t over Mickey.”

“Yeah whatever!” He called after him.

Then they backed out the door, Kenyatta following them with every step and slammed the door behind them. Everyone looked at Kenyatta with confusion and wonder.

“You okay Mandy?” he asked.

“Why’d you do that?” She asked.

“No one else gets to hit you,” he said, arm tight on her elbow. She looked terrified. He finally dropped her arm and headed back towards the couch.

Mickey stepped forward after him. “What the fuck? No one should get to hi-“

Mandy had turned around, hands on Mickey’s arm. “Please, Mick. No.”

“But h-“

“Please.” She shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. Ian frowned at himself. He should be more concerned with this.

Mickey huffed and gave a “fine” and a little shake of his head. “I never thought you’d end up like mom.”

Dinner that night was tense. Mickey was fuming. Kenyatta was a large black hole sucking the life out of Mandy.

Ian couldn’t get himself to care. He knew he should, but he couldn’t.

~~~

Mickey’s face was black and blue, torn up along his temple. He had an ugly purple bruise going down his neck. He was going through the motions, getting ready for his day, and Ian watched as he moved around the room. Gathering clothes, putting on deodorant, ran a comb over his hair. He made it all look so easy. Then he took off his shirt and the bruise on his neck went down his back. There was another set of purple and green bruises around his ribs and hips.

Ian was confused. His bruises from the bar fight weren’t that bad. They should be almost healed by now.

Something happened.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” Mickey asked, smirking over his shoulder.

“You’re hurt.”

Mickey looked down and put his arms through another shirt. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He sat down on the bed, his focus entirely on Ian. “You feel like doing anything today?”  
Ian didn’t answer him.

“What happened?”

Mickey looked away for a minute, looking down at his hands. Ian followed his gaze. His hands weren’t torn up as Ian was expecting.

“Terry’s in prison and he’s still calling the shots.”

All of this because of Ian. His mood spiraled downward like a plane falling out of the sky. Bumpy and terrifying and all Ian could do was just hang on and wait for the crash.

“But don’t worry about it, okay?” He ran a hand through Ian’s hair. “How about a movie? We can set up the couch so…”

“I’m sorry.”

“…for what?”

“Everything. It’d be better if you just dumped me in the street.”

“That’s not fucking true.”

Ian didn’t respond. He just rolled over.

Crash.

~~~

“Why are you holding me?” Ian asked. It was dark. There was soft moonlight in the room. The noisy sound of L passing by shook the window.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Mickey told him.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. What are you sorry for?”

Ian turned around in Mickey’s arms and buried his face in his shirt. “I don’t know.” Mickey held him tighter. “Everything.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

Liar, Ian screamed at himself. He’s lying.

~~~

Finish your plate. Like he was six and didn’t want to eat his peas. Finish it, Ian. Please.

Holding the fork in his hand felt so foreign to him. Picking up food and raising it to his mouth seemed like a waste of energy so he sat the fork down and let his hand rest in his lap.

Just the meat then, please Ian.

They weren’t going to let up. He reached for the fork again. He took a bite of the chicken and chewing was a feat he wasn’t prepared for. Dropping the fork again he focused on chewing. Then he swallowed.

Again, Ian.

“No.”

Ian, please like… five more bites.

“No, I’m tired.”

You can go to bed after you’ve eaten.

He took another bite, shoved the tray away from him, pushed himself down, and curled up against the pillow. He was so tired.

There was a hand on his back and a sigh somewhere in the room, but he no longer cared.

~~~

He knew someone was moving water over his back but he didn’t know who. It was easier to check out. Everything had become too hard and the fact he couldn’t do any of it was too ridiculous that he just

Stopped caring.

He was on complete auto pilot.

That wasn’t right. Auto pilot meant no one had to steer the plane. He felt hands on him, heard words telling him to do stuff, to raise an arm, to clear his plate, to stand up, to stand up, to fucking stand up, to get the fuck up Gallagher, to get off the fucking floor, to raise his neck I need to shave your chin, to change his underwear, I said change it not just take it off and roll over, to take this pill, to drink water, please just a sip, to brush his teeth, to lean back I need to wash the soap out of your hair, to sit down, to stay where he was, to put the knife down, to just fucking look at me please, to just lay down it’s okay.

He wasn’t on auto pilot. He was a remote control human whose controller was just tossed to whoever wanted to deal with him.

Sometimes it was Lip. Sometimes it was Mandy. Once it was Carl, and his voice was so low and when did that happen? Once it was Svetlana and it was just so easy to ignore her until it wasn’t any more so he did whatever it was she wanted him to do. He forgot. Nothing was worth remembering. Sometimes it was Debbie and she’d rest her head on his arm or his back and he’d sit and wait for orders.

Sometimes it was Fiona.

Usually it was Mickey.

Lip’s hands were rough. Mandy’s were sad. Carl’s were a punch and Debbie’s were sweet but tough. Fiona’s were soft. Like they have always been. The mother his mother couldn’t be.

He understood that now. Fiona was unbelievable but Monica was powerful and strong for giving him the few moments of soft mothering that she did. Those few moments had become more precious when she dealt with this… nothing that was her whole life. He understood why she stayed away and why she left. If he had enough energy he’d leave too. It would be the right thing to do, after all. It was the best thing she could have done for them, leaving. He forgave her, in a subtle way. Or maybe he filed that away for later.

To Do: Forgive Monica.

Fiona though. Fiona gave and gave and gave and he couldn’t remember a moment where she was rough with him. Fiona was incredible. The mother that didn’t have to be his mother. The mother who was his mother when she was six years old. Fiona’s hands were soft and they were warm and he vaguely wanted to take back over and say thank you so he tried once. Whatever it was that he said scared everyone. It induced wide eyes and stronger grips and terrified faces so he stopped wanting to take over the controller.

It was better when they didn’t make those faces. He didn’t quite know why, he just knew that it was. So the controller was in their hands and he was empty.

All these things were processed, one by one. Orders, requests, pleads, they were all the same. Processed and categorized and done, like a button was pressed and a video game character jumped in response. But none of them were felt. None of them had meaning. An avatar running towards a goal only the player was aware of.

Mickey’s hands might have meaning; they were close, but no cigar. Something covered in cobwebs in the back of his mind whispered that they should have meaning. They were gentle and strong and warm.

But they were just hands, just like everyone else’s.

~~~

He didn’t know where the gun came from; he just knew that it was heavy and pretty and probably loaded. It would be easy.

“Ian, give me the gun.”

He looked up and it was Mandy. She wanted the gun but would she understand how pretty it is? How important it was? How vital?

Mickey walked into the room and Ian turned to him and he dropped a brown bag of groceries. A can of spegettios rolled towards Ian’s feet. Ian watched as it rolled, the sound of metal on linoleum echoing through the house.

There was something on TV. Some kind of ghost show where everything was dark and green.

Why was he picking up on little details? Like the pretty filigree on the gun’s handle. A cigarette on the table, still lit, and still smoking in an ashtray. The burners on the stove turned on. A clock ticking somewhere in another room. Mandy’s neon pink socks. Mickey’s face – with a new bruise.

Everything was so fucking intense. Sensory overload from days, weeks (? he wasn’t sure) of not feeling anything and suddenly feeling everything at once. Except it wasn’t short circuiting him. It was like he was taking in a breath of air and getting it caught in the back of this throat, unable to cough.

The gun was what made the difference, he decided. A constant state of nothing, or this world of color he was standing in, and the gun in his hand was the difference.

“What the fuck, Mandy?”

“I don’t know. I thought they were all locked up?”

“Fuck,” Mickey said.

They were worried. Why were they worried? It was just a gun. The two of them grew up in an armory; they should be used to guns and what they did to brains.

He didn’t want to go back to feeling nothing.

Just one last pull of a trigger would be all it would take.

“Babe,” Mickey said. The cobwebs in his brain moved, but they weren’t knocked down. “Give me the gun.”

Ian looked down at it. A pistol, silver and heavy and pretty and so important to Ian’s well-being. Mickey liked guns. Maybe it’s why he liked them all along. He’d understand.  
He handed the gun over. Mickey took it quickly, handing it to Mandy and he threw his arms around Ian’s neck.

~~~

It wasn’t until later that Ian realized that he was holding a gun and he had a finger on the trigger and it would have been so simple.

He cried and cried and cried. He was scared and Mickey petted his hair and he pushed him away and cried alone.

It was pain and it was fear and everything that was going to happen was going to be more of the same and he was lost and he threw up a few times, Mandy cleaned it up and brought him a bucket and he threw up some more.

Lip showed up and sat on the bed with him and said some things and asked some questions that Ian didn’t hear. Then he yelled at Mickey for a while. Then he pulled on Ian, pulled him out of bed, pulled him down the hall, and everyone was yelling, and Lip shoved Ian’s coat over his shoulders and what the hell was he doing?

Could they not see that he was too much to deal with? They were taking care of him, washing him, making him eat, helping him stand up to go to the bathroom because he was broken and wrong and a failure. He was a burden they didn’t deserve. How could they not see that? It would be easier on them if he was just dead. A quick clean-up, they didn’t even have to have a funeral, and then they’d be free of him.

Then they were all still and quiet and their faces were that terrified look again and he realized he said it all out loud.

Click.

He didn’t care. The tears were turned off. The color of the room was gone. The weights hanging from his shoulders with meat hooks got heavier. He let the coat fall off his shoulders and hit the floor. He pushed himself back down the hall and laid back down, completely drained.

Why didn’t he do it? He had the way out of this hole in his hands and he didn’t do it. He had a chance to end their suffering and he failed. He doubt they’d ever give him the chance again, they were so insistent that he lived. They’d all be more careful now, more than ever.

Why didn’t he do it?

~~~

He was sitting at a table. The walls were yellow. He was home. His house. The one he grew up in. He was surrounded by his family; Fiona’s hands were holding his.

It was like he blinked and he was aware.

“How did I get here?”

Fiona’s jaw tightened and she looked at Mickey with a glare. Ian turned to look at Mickey who had bit his lip and thrown his head back. He looked hurt. Ian pulled a hand from Fiona and rested it on Mickey’s. Mickey looked at his hand and then up to Ian like Ian holding his hand was the best thing that happened to him.

“You were walking down the street when Mandy found you,” Debbie answered. “Do you remember?”

Ian shook his head. His feet were cold. He wiggled them in his socks. He must have been here awhile if he didn’t have shoes on.

“How long ago?”

“You guys just showed up,” Carl said, standing behind Lip.

“Where are my shoes?”

“We need to get him off those meds,” Mandy said. “He’s a zombie.”

“He needs to be on medication,” Lip told her.

He had been taking pills? Oh, that’s right.

“We just need to find the right ones,” Mickey said. “That’s what the book said.”

“Oh, so now you’re ready to admit he needs to go to the hospital?” Fiona asked. “If we had our way he’d already be at the clinic getting help!”

It was Mickey’s turn to tighten his jaw. “I’m the one that has been dealing with him for the last goddamn month.”

“I told you that it was impossible-“

“He’s not impossible!” Mickey shouted, shoulders rising. “Or else we wouldn’t be here.”

Ian squeezed both of their hands to stop them. “What book?” He asked.

“What?” Mickey asked.

“You said that’s what the book said, what book?”

“Uh,” Mickey said, kind of shocked. Ian’s brow furrowed in confusion. It was a simple question, wasn’t it? He looked towards Lip who was giving him the same look. So were Mandy and Fiona for that matter.

“What?” he asked them.

Fiona shook. “It’s just… this is the most you’ve asked questions in a while.”

“Oh.” Ian said. He wiggled his toes again. “Where are my shoes?”

“You didn’t put them on, babe.”

“Why would I leave the house without shoes?” Then, “What book?” Then, “I like the ‘babe’ thing, by the way.”

That look was back on Mickey’s face. He felt a sudden rush of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “What book?”

“Uh, a bunch of different ones, about bipolar disorder and depression. I stole a few from the library and a couple from a bookstore.”

“And you read them all?” He asked.

Mickey nodded.

Ian smiled at him. How sweet of him. Heat bit at his toes. His smile fell.

“Why did I leave the house without shoes?”

“We don’t know,” Debbie said with a soft hand on his arm.

“We have to get him off these meds,” Mandy said.

“I’m taking meds?” Ian asked. Then he remembered again. “Oh wait, never mind.”

“You remember taking them?” Lip asked.

“No.” Ian answered. “I remember someone telling me to take them though.” He looked down at his hand holding Mickey’s. Mickey’s grip was like a vice. Ian smiled at it. Then he looked back up to Lip. “I think it was you.”

“Do you know how long you’ve been taking them?”

“No.” Then he yawned deep and sighed in relief. Then he looked at Debbie. She was getting to be so pretty. “I’m tired,” he said, turning to Mickey. “You’re still here,” he mused. Mickey’s face was torn up again. When did that happen?

“Of course I am,” he said.

“I’m not just a warm mouth.”

Mickey smiled slowly. “Nope.”

“What?” Lip asked.

“It’s… don’t worry about it,” Mickey said.

He turned to Lip to tell him the story. Why did he stop talking to Lip? Then he saw the window, saw that it was dark outside, and said, “Oh, its nighttime.” He looked around to everyone; saw that everyone was wearing pajamas. “No wonder I’m tired.”

Fiona ran a hand over her mouth in concern. Guilt hit him again. She looked like that because of him.

“Did I leave the house at night?” Suddenly he was self-aware. Everyone was awake because of him. “And all of you came looking for me.” He sat back in the chair, pulling his hand out of Fiona’s. Mickey’s grip held onto his hand tight.

“Yeah, but it’s alright,” Mickey said, other hand reaching out to rub his forearm. “We found you.”

“You shouldn’t have looked,” he told them, suddenly sad.

“Why not?” Carl asked. He saw Lip smack his stomach.

“I’m too much trouble.” Then to Carl, “You’re getting tall.”

Mickey shook his head at the switch in conversation.

Fiona leaned forward, “You are not too much trouble.”

“Monica is,” he shrugged, convinced. “I am too.”

Mandy leaned forward onto her arms and looked down. Ian was already his mother. He understood her. He pulled his hand from Fiona and petted Mandy’s back. She looked at him with a sad smirk. He was a mirror, he was sure of it.

What a pair, indeed.

“You’re not Monica,” Mickey told him.

“My toes are cold,” he responded. They wouldn’t understand. How could they?

Mickey turned his chair, then turned Ian’s, and reached for his feet.

“What are you doing?”

He had one foot in his hand, rubbing it between his hands. Ian sat in awe. He was so in love with this man. Mickey looked back at him like he had no problem physically warming his dirty feet with his hands. Like he had done it before. Mickey was wonderful. Why was he sticking around him? He was poison. Then there was a big blob of white behind Mickey and Ian looked up, and up, and up, and there was Kevin, looking at Mickey like Mickey had grown a second head and started spouting poetry.

“Kev!” he said happily. “How long have you been here?”

“As long as you have,” he answered.

“Oh. Hi.”

Kevin smiled. “Hi. Long time no see, bud.”

Guilt crashed over him again and Mickey switched feet. It was much better already. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Why?” Mickey asked him.

“You’re wonderful,” he told him, voice reverent.

“You’re sorry that I’m wonderful?” Mickey asked, confused.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t get it.”

“How could you?” He asked with a soft smile and fingertips reaching forward, running along Mickey’s cheek, along the blue bruise. Mickey leaned into his hand slightly. How could he ever understand he deserves better than what Ian could ever give him? He’s stubborn, so stubborn, so lovely, and so stubborn. He’d never understand because he would refuse to look at what was so clear to Ian.

Mickey always seemed to do that.

“You’re hurt,” He said.

“Nah,” Mickey brushed him off. “Just shit with my brothers again. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t know if I even could.”

Mickey blinked rapidly at that. That was probably the wrong thing to say. Ian didn’t know.

The table was quiet. That was new. This table was never quiet. This table was loud and laughing and tears and joy and spaghetti and happy noise that filled the walls and made them yellow with smiles.

This table was dead because he was dead. Mandy was right, he was a zombie. He was just a zombie and he was biting them and making them sick with worry and fear and concern and they just needed to put him out of his misery before he hurt anyone else.

Guilt crashed over him again, a weight on his shoulders and ankles. Mickey dropped his foot and it hit the floor with a plop. Guilt was pulling him down and down and down and everything was dark again. As dark as it was outside.

“I’m sorry,” he said; face broken, tears already falling. “I’m so sorry.”

Mickey was leaning forward, his hands on Ian’s knees, already shushing him. He was so lovely.

“Everything would be better if I wasn’t here,” he said, sniffing.

“No,” a couple voices argued at once. A couple hands reached forward towards him. Mandy gripped his shoulder.

“Yeah. You’d all be asleep, and you all wouldn’t worry and you could all just get on with your lives without me.”

“Ian,” Lip started. “Stop talking like that.”

“What, telling the truth?”

“Like you’re going to off yourself,” he said. Debbie sniffed. Fiona reached for her hand. Incredible Fiona. Lip turned to Mickey. “He talk like that often?”

“He doesn’t talk much at all,” Mickey answered. “He’s talked more in the last ten minutes than he has in the last two weeks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No hey,” Mandy said from behind him. “That’s on us and giving you these meds. We just gave you the wrong ones.”

“That’s okay,” Ian said. Mickey’s hands on his knees were heavy, but a good heavy. He reached forward with his foot and pushed at Mickey’s shoe. “It’s been nice.”

“What has?”

“I don’t know. Being numb. Not being here. Not being sad.”

“I thought depression was that you’re sad all the time.” Carl said.

“It’s not how it works,” Fiona told him.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s feeling nothing,” Ian told him, voice soft. “Like you’re an empty turtle shell. And it’s cold.”

“Do you want to kill yourself?” Fiona asked, voice shaking. The table stiffened.

“No,” he answered calmly. The table visibly let out a breath. “Not today. But it’d be nice. I don’t want to bite you. I’ll bite you and you’ll die. Be sure to cut off my head to make sure no one else gets hurt.”

The table got quiet again.

“What?” Mickey asked, recovering.

Ian looked up at him. “Mandy said I’m a zombie.”

“That’s not…” Mickey shook his head and then paused, lost for how to explain it.

Ian yawned again. “I’m tired.”

“Alright,” Fiona said. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” She said looking at Mickey. Mickey’s jaw tightened again. “Everyone, let’s try to get some sleep. Last day of school tomorrow! Then we figure out our next move.”

“Take my room tonight, yeah?” Lip said to Mickey.

How nice of him.

Fiona was herding Carl from behind her and already motioning for Debbie to get a move on. There was movement at the table again. Ian was glad for it. Then

“Last day of school?” Ian asked.

“Yeah,” Lip said.

“It’s May?”

“It’s almost June, babe.”

“What happened to April?”

~~~

“Are you feeling better today?”

Fiona.

He rolled over to face her.

“Define better.”

“Still nauseated?”

Ian shook his head. All that had passed. Lip called it withdrawals. He sweated it out and threw it up and ached in pain in Lip’s room while he waited for it to pass. They had been giving him Monica’s old Lithium and he turned zombie on them. He could feel the difference, though. Between being low and being drugged. The combination of it all was not a fun state of mind. He lost almost a month of time.

“Still low?”

Ian sighed, hating the question. What else was he going to do? The meds didn’t work. Mickey said that there were others, and had told him he’d break into a pharmacy for him if he needed to. It was a sweet gesture. Made even sweeter when Carl asked if he could help and Lip smacked him over the head. He missed his family. He just didn’t know how to get back to them.

He nodded and rolled back over.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward, resting her head on his shoulder. She didn’t say much else, and just sat with him. It was nice. Mickey sat with him like that sometimes too. The presence without the requirement to interact.

He missed his family.

He knew his family missed him.

He was so, very lost.

“I wanted to kill myself, Fi,” he said quietly, admitting to it.

“Do you still want to?” She asked again, timid.

“Sometimes,” he answered. All the time, he told himself. You want to right now, said his brain.

Her grip tightened on him, and for the first time in a long time, he welcomed the grip. He was terrified.

“Do you want to go see a doctor?”

The words were heavy in the air, even if they were whispered. A doctor was a concession he wasn’t sure he was ready to make. The drugs might be out of his system but he still felt like everything was just too hard and everything he couldn’t do was just another ridiculous thing to add to the list and that list was just too embarrassing to face.

He shook his head.

He wasn’t ready.

She let out a huge sigh, “alright. I’ll keep asking though, you’re warned.” Her hug tightened and then she was gone.

As soon as she had closed the curtain on the doorway, he started sobbing.

~~~

A little while later he heard a loud crash somewhere in the house, and Fiona screaming “Carl, what the fuck?!” and he just couldn’t gather up enough energy to care about it. Life was moving on without him. It should keep moving on without him. He was just this dark spot in everyone’s lives. The drugs were gone but he was still a zombie.

~~~

“I’ve got a final today. Finally taking it. Fucking polar vortex throwing school out of wack. Do you feel like a celebratory joint when I get back?”

Lip.

“No.”

He sighed and shut the curtain with a huff.

~~~

“I brought you lunch! Grilled cheese sandwich and a pickle. I know how much you like those.”

Debbie.

She sat the plate down on the night stand; he rolled over, sat up slowly, and grabbed a triangle of sandwich. He wasn’t really hungry, but he didn’t have the energy to fight them anymore. She looked happy as he chewed.

“Are you doing better today?”

“Not really,” he told her.

“Oh,” her face fell. “That’s okay.”

“Not really,” he told her again. He was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired.

He reached for the water.

She sat down on the bed next to him, fingers piddling with the sleeves of her shirt.

“Can I ask a question?”

He shrugged.

“If you’re the most like Monica, then I’m the second closest. Do you think I’ll be bipolar too?”

“I hope not.” He said. “I don’t want any of you to be this.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s…” he paused. Unsure of how to answer. “It’s… It’s like quick sand. The more I try, the deeper I get.”

She looked at her hands, pulled her sleeves down her palms, and sighed. “Oh.”

~~~

“I’m in trouble. Can I hide in here for a while?”

Carl.

He didn’t answer. Carl seemed to take his silence as a yes. And, thankfully, Carl sat at the end of the bed noiselessly for a few minutes. He didn’t even look at Ian. Ian was so relieved. He welcomed it. Comfort without expected interaction.

“Fiona says we just have to wait this out,” Carl said quietly. “Lip thinks we should try to force you. Mickey stands in front of you like a guard dog. I swear he growls sometimes.”

He grinned and peaked at Ian. Ian didn’t respond.

Carl picked up the edge of the blanket and started fiddling with an errant string.

“I don’t mind it.” He said. “Mickey says you’re sick and we need to take care of you. I’m cool with doing that. As long as you are, too.”  
Ian met Carl’s eyes. When did his pyromaniac of a little brother turn into this sweet kid? When did it happen? This Carl was so grown up and so strong. Ian felt a small bit of pride and a whole lot of guilt. He had missed so much.

“Can I do anything?”

Ian’s eyes watered. Then he shook his head.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Let me know if that changes, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then the curtain swished open to reveal an angry looking Fiona.

“Carl, do not hide behind Ian! Come on, you’re in trouble, let’s go, you have work to do now. Clean up your mess!”

“I was just-“

“Go.”

“Fine,” Carl grumbled. He pushed himself up out of the bed and was almost out of the room.

“Carl?” Ian called. Fiona perked up, Carl turned to face him. “Thank you.”

Carl sighed happily and smiled. “You’re welcome.”

~~~

Sighs were going to be the death of him. They were going to eat away at his resolve until he was sure there was nothing left to fight for. Little ones, long ones, and ones that fill the space he barely exists in. They were like little bullets to what was left of his well-being. Happy ones when he spoke back; frustrated ones when he didn’t. They dug at him and left him wounded. What was worse was his days began to be divided up into sighs.

The quick one that came after Mickey’s “You feel like gettin’ the fuck up today?” in the morning.

The pitiful one that came after Debbie’s “It’s okay. I’ll just leave this here for you to eat when you’re ready.” after lunch.

The unsatisfied one that came after Carl’s “You want to watch a really bloody movie?” in the afternoon.

The angry one that came after Lip’s “You have to come out of this at some point.” just before he went to bed.

The worst ones were the sad ones. To know he was causing the people he loved sadness was another blow he just didn’t know how to take anymore. If all the other sighs were bullets, sad sighs were grenades and he had nowhere to take cover.

~~~

“Your brother broke the house.”

Mickey.

He had swung the curtain open with anger. It hadn’t been more than half an hour since Debbie had left him. He let out a chuckle, “actually broke a house. Didn’t know he had it in him.” It must have been what Carl was hiding from earlier. Mickey moved around the room, looking through a pile of clothes for a new shirt. Ian watched. “Giant fucking hole all the way through to the basement.”

“How?” Ian asked. Mickey smiled at him.

“He found one of those big old box TVs somewhere and was going to bring it up here for you. Something about ‘if you won’t come down for a movie, then he’ll bring the movie to you.’” Mickey sat down on the corner of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head. “It fell and, broke the shit out of the stair railing, fell through the ground, and is now sitting on the floor of the goddamn basement.” He put his arms through the sleeves of the new shirt and paused. “So guess who got volunteered to close it up?”

Fiona angry because of him. Mickey cleaning up because of him. Carl in trouble because of him. The house a mess because of him. All this inconvenience and bad things because of him.

Ian rolled over and tried to hide his face.

Mickey let out a long, sad sigh, then he ran a hand along his leg and squeezed his calf and then he was gone.

~~~

“Ian, are you in here?”

Liam.

His voice was so small and so tiny. He padded his way into the room. In the afternoon light, his face was shadowed as he made his way around the mattress to find Ian’s face. Ian was curled up, blanket to his chin.

“I’m here.”

Liam smiled wide.

“I missed you.”

Ian willed himself not to cry. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

“That’s okay. Are you sick?”

Ian paused. To say yes would be the first time he acknowledged it to anyone. The first concession. Liam wouldn’t tell. Liam would be a good trial run.

He nodded.

“I’ll pat your back.”

“Okay.”

Liam then went through the process of climbing up into the bed, crawling up real close to Ian, and began patting his back. Ian started to cry. He used to do this for Liam when he was sick. It was a Gallagher kid trait, he supposed. He was such a loving little boy and Ian’s heart ached.

It was ridiculous that he couldn’t get himself to do anything.

Liam patted his back for a minute before he laid his head down next to Ian’s face. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m sad.”

“Why?” He repositioned himself so he was lying down.

He sniffed. “I don’t know.”

Liam frowned, unhappy with that answer. “Why?”

“I’m just sad,” he said with a shrug.

“Okay,” Liam said. “I’ll stay here ‘til you’re happy.” Then he pulled at Ian’s arm so it would wrap around him and settled in. Ian closed his eyes and held his baby brother and tried not to cry.

A few minutes later, Liam let out a long sigh, one that told Ian that he had fallen asleep, and it was the first time a sigh didn’t feel like a bullet.

~~~

It was dark again, still in Lip’s bed, and Mickey was almost asleep behind him. He rolled over to face him. Mickey stirred at the movement, but only adjusted his arms. A warm hand found its home on Ian’s hip, and a soft thumb moved back and forth for a moment before it stilled. Ian sobbed in an instant, dry and no tears, but a sob all the same and Mickey shushed him, mouth forming quietly around the forgiving “shh,” running a comforting hand up Ian’s side. If only he wasn’t broken, he could enjoy this Mickey. The one that gives him smooth touches and soft kisses. The Mickey that he used to dream about, one that was attentive and adoring. He missed it. He missed the change. His brokenness incited this change in Mickey and Ian hated it.

He was missing out on so many things. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

“Mickey?” He whispered.

Mickey moaned, but didn’t open his eyes, “yeah?”

“Why don’t you want me to go to the doctor?”

His eyes opened, and, even in the dark of the room, his blue eyes shone. “Why do you want to know?”

Ian shrugged, unable to look him in the eye anymore. Mickey was quiet, but his grip on Ian’s hip grew stronger, and he shuffled himself closer to him. Ian let him manhandle him.

Then, soft and slow, as if he were scared of what would happen if he said it, “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Have I been the Ian you want to be with?”

Mickey paused again. Ian chanced a glimpse back up to his eyes only to find Mickey wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his head was tucked and he was biting his lip. Ian moved forward and rested their heads together.

Mickey let out a long sigh, a nervous one this time, and Ian tried not to flinch. “I’ll take you anyway you are. Here, with me.”

“I’m not here, Mickey.” Ian said. “How could you lose me if I’m not here?”

“They’ll take you and change you.” That sounded nice. To be something other than this. Mickey’s hand ran down Ian’s arm, down to slot their hands together.

“Make me better.”

“Take you away.”

“I don’t understand. Anything has to be better than this.” His toes curled and his muscles tightened and he let out a sob. “Shit, Mick. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Existing.” His eyes clouded like a windshield in a storm and his legs ached for release.

He fought his tears for he didn’t know how long and Mickey held him through it. Wonderful Mickey.

“Either get me a doctor or get me a gun, either way, I’m done,” Ian finally said.

Mickey’s eyes were wide with fear before he nodded, “okay. Okay.”

~~~


End file.
